


Step Lightly

by Hannah



Series: Autumn's Advancing [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah/pseuds/Hannah
Summary: "It was always easy to be happy, if you knew how to do it right."A meditation on continuity of self, with snacks.Thanks toNiamh,Petra, andYellowbfor encouragement, and toAndtheyfightcrimefor giving it a once-over. Title taken from "Stay Free" by The Clash.
Series: Autumn's Advancing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515974
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Step Lightly

Bad pizza called for liquor. Not good pizza, by any means; this wasn’t a night for good pizza. This was a night for bad pizza and a bottle of something just-above-the-bottom-shelf put-hair-on-your-chest terrifically alcoholic and, most important, _brown._ Good pizza called for lovely wine. Bad pizza had its own best pairing.

There was always Mombo’s or Hippizzaz for good pizza, if good pizza was what he was after – even Crooked Goat, now that they’d expanded the menu a bit. But tonight, he wasn’t. Good pizza he could get with Buffy most any night. These days, bad pizza was a solitary pleasure. But first, the booze.

Spike picked up a cheap enough bottle at Safeway before making his way across town, deliberately seeking out the absolute lowest, the very worst Sebastopol’s evening had to offer. The sort of pizza that a dollar a slice would’ve been overcharging. 7-11 sold theirs a good deal beyond that – bloody inflation – but the spirit remained the same. Spike glanced at the buffalo wings and the mozzarella sticks, glistening with grease under the fluorescents and smelling absolutely horrifically delicious, then gazed at a slice on the far edge of the three-meat pizza, the one with a pustule of sauce just begging to be lanced, as the clerk boxed it up for him. There wasn’t any way of being certain of the provinciality of the animals the meat’d come from, or if it’d even come from animals at all. Which, honestly, made it all the better for what he was after.

He gave the clerk a smile and tipped her all the change he had left over, and, settling himself on the little dirt slope just past the parking lot, flipped the carton open, twisted off the bottle’s cap, and began to enjoy himself. A bite, a drink, rinse and repeat. A tiny bit of spiciness found in the hopefully-meat toppings, just enough to be heard through the tang in the sauce, all wrapped up cheerfully in the rich, slick cheese, the crust a solidly crunchy afterthought. The bourbon cut through everything, washing his mouth clean with smoked-up spices, clearing the palate for another mouthful. It didn’t last, but that was part of the joy of it: a pizza big enough to last wasn’t a pizza anyone would be proud of having finished off. Not even a Zuberian demon.

Hot pizza on his tongue, cold air on his bare arms, burning booze down his throat. A dependable recipe for a happy vamp, and the pizza was well worth the shit it’d be bringing on later.

After he licked the last of the grease from his fingers, he threw away the crumpled-up box, then settled back down to enjoy the rest of the half-full bottle. Better to not chug it; far superior to drink it slowly. Let it roil through his nostrils and burn down his throat and give him a little more time by himself. Give him a reason to stay out and enjoy some quiet, the first he’d had of it all day. It was early enough in the night there were still cars driving around, and late enough none of them were coming over his way, down this little street, sticking to the main roads nearby.

Day eleven of thirteen. That it’d be done Wednesday night by dinnertime wasn’t so much a promise as it was test of his endurance. If he had his way, they’d be waiting out the days in a hotel somewhere, or even staying as guests at someone else’s place. If he _really_ had his druthers, they’d have hired a demonic-leaning construction company open to odd hours and amenable to contracting out for a vampire. But Sebastopol wasn’t Sunnydale or even one of the world’s eleven active Hellmouth towns: construction took place in daylight hours.

Not that the solarium wouldn’t be worth it. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to using it soon as it was ready. Not that he wasn’t happy about what was mostly something for _him,_ never mind how much Buffy would enjoy it herself once it was finished. Mostly that he wished someone would hurry up and finally bloody well invent a silent nail gun some point this century. Hiding in the bedroom with his MP3 player and the headphones turned up high as they could go, then retreating to a closet with a noise-cancelling pair once the music got too much, wasn’t the noblest way to endure the workingmen’s days. But it got him through them best he could manage.

Good as it was that it was only thirteen days of endurance, not fifteen or twenty or however long it’d take if the builders were a little slower, less willing to push through the days, not so keen on spending their days smartly, it was still something he couldn’t escape until the sun went down and night finally came. Buffy had tried to make the effort, and he’d rebuked it: no reason for both of them to spend the working hours holed up. He’d crawl out long after everyone else was gone, grateful for the quiet, and spend a little time with Buffy before finally stepping foot outside and hearing nothing beyond the ordinary.

Last time he’d lived in houses, _properly_ lived in them, he’d never seen to renovations. Never had reason to bother. Last time, he’d been in New York with Dru, hopping from one house to another as each wore out its novelty. She’d hunted joyfully in those years, stalking her way up and down Wall Street, one cocaine-snorting stockbroker after another falling to her fangs. Beautiful places all over Manhattan, up by Central Park and down in Chelsea and everywhere in between, brownstones or townhouses or gorgeous two-story apartments, always something worth the fuss. He’d throw open the closets and model late-season suits to make her laugh, and she’d try on dresses if there was ever a lady of the house she’d come to supplant. It never failed that the power’d eventually go down and the water’d get shut off. When that happened, it was always the same: throw the doors open for a night of grand debauchery heady enough it’d have made Darla crack a smile. All the punks from the clubs, the vamps from the empty subway stations, friends Dru made out in the parks, come one come all, bring your drugs and bring some kids. Take whatever’s not nailed down, mark up the walls like a great bloody bathroom stall, stay the night, stay the month, enjoy the new squat, he and Dru were off with the best of the spoils to find another place with a working shower. He was always one for creature comforts.

He took a long drink of bourbon, almost enough to gargle with.

It’d been so easy to be _happy_ back then.

Spike heard the kids coming three blocks away. While they crossed the street and came up through the parking lot, he put scents to voices to faces for all six of them. That part was a surprise: he hadn’t heard one of them at all. One of the girls, made small by how she held herself at the back of the group, dark eyes and dark hair and a still, unmoving mouth. The other two – a fat Asian girl with hair the color he’d used to wear all those decades back and a skinny Latin bird with battle-ready braids – carried the ladies’ side of things. The three boys – tall and broad with short dark hair; Black and skinny with glasses and short hair; white with glasses and hair long enough to slick back but not yet braid – were making the most noise. All of them except the little girl yammering on about turns and plays and rolls and ideas. He let the noise run through the night without concerning himself over it, let them run on about what snacks to get and what drinks to buy, as they walked on past him and into the store.

They came tumbling out a few minutes later, snacks cracking and drinks fizzing. Nothing warm for any of them. Instead, little salty things to crunch or gnaw on, and sweet bubbles to chase it down. Some good-natured piss-taking over snack choices: long sticks of processed meat, fried corn, thin slices of potatoes. The quiet girl finally spoke in his hearing, her voice rising in defense of salt-and-vinegar crisps. He hid his smile with another drink of bourbon and went back to listening to distant cars. 

At least, until tall boy peeled off from the group and came his way.

“Hey.” Spike turned his head upwards to look him in the eye. Tall boy didn’t manage to loom, but not for lack of meeting the height requirement. Give him a few years and some weight training and then he might have a shot at the running. “Yeah, we were wondering if you could do us a favor.” Spike stayed quiet, nodding, curious despite himself. “Think you could be nice enough to buy us some beer in there?” He pointed at the 7-11 with his bottle of tart fizzy drink. “We’ll pay for it. Just go in and buy it for us.”

Spike laughed. “There’s no beer in there worth the trouble you’re going to t’get it.”

“Come on,” he whinged. “You can keep the change, we’ve got like fifty dollars here, you can buy us two six-packs and that’s at least twelve dollars left for you. Just walk in, get us something cheap –”

“Tell you what,” Spike cut in. “Let’s start with a drink of that lemonade and I’ll see if I can’t help you out.” Tall boy stayed still. “Lemonade. Come on.” Spike pushed him into action, gesturing he come forth, and the boy did, proffering his plastic bottle. Obeying the grown-up’s voice. “Ta.” He took the bottle, raised it to toast, and breathlessly swallowed down about half of what was left in it before the boy could blink.

“Hey!” He shouted. “That was – oh.” The sight of Spike carefully pouring rotgut bourbon into the bottle shut him up. Not quite refilling the bottle, but enough to change the color of what was left into a lighter shade of that all-important brown. Spike capped it up, shook it up, and handed it back.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass bottle to the boy’s plastic one. They both drank, and it was the boy who coughed and sputtered, and it was the boy who straightened up and took another drink. “Now be a kind fellow and share with all your friends.” He waved at them to come over. “Gave you enough to go around.” Enough that it’d be about a shot’s worth of bourbon each, maybe a shot and a half, and going slow enough, with what else they were drinking and the time of night, they’d be wobbly on the sidewalk and nothing worse than that.

“It used to be delinquents skipped over the beer an’ went right for the hard stuff,” he said, watching the bottle change hands carefully. “Dunno _what’s_ happening to the youth of this country.” 

“We’re not here to get hammered,” Black glasses said, handing the bottle to quiet girl. “We just wanted a little drink, you know? Just something nice.” Quiet girl took a look at the bottle, then took a deep breath, steeling herself, and then Spike’s eyes went wide and all her friends crowed as someone _finally_ took a good and proper swig. No better way to drink rotgut to get some esteem in the eyes of one’s friends. He laughed, raising his bottle at her, and she giggled, smiled shyly, handed it over to Peroxide and letting it make another round through everyone’s hands.

“Do I know you?” Braided bird asked, leaning in. He shook his head. She took a step closer to get a better look. “You look familiar.”

“I get that a lot,” Spike told her.

“I swear I know you. Have we met before?”

“No way that’s possible. Only moved here two months ago.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. Then, perking up, “Where? Maybe I saw you around.” Spike pointed southwest of them, and she shook her head. Her way of saying, _So much for that idea._

If he’d pointed northeast, out to where the little nest at the edge of town was – there was enough fluorescent from the sign, maybe they could tell just from the color of his arms. A humble, almost sad little nest, six vamps with barely three centuries scraped up between them. Time was, once, it wouldn’t have been worth bothering with what were practically fledges. Now, it warmed him as well as the bourbon to know there were still vamps coming new to the world. New vamps with just this century as all they’d ever known.

“Can I ask, why?” Peroxide asked.

“Why what?” Spike replied.

“Why here?” she gestured around, encompassing the whole of the township with her hands. “Why Sebastopol? There’s nothing to do here.”

“Didn’t move here for work, I’ll say that much. It’s the lady of the house that draws in the paychecks.”

“What’s she do?” White glasses asked.

“Consultation,” Spike said smoothly. Which was true enough, as these things went. “She travels for work sometimes. We figured, place like this’d make for a decent home base.”

“I can see that,” Quiet girl managed. “I mean, there’s not much here, but that’s why – you get away from everything else and you go back out again.”

“Got it in one.” Spike raised his bottle to her as the blush blossomed on her cheeks.

“Still,” Peroxide said. “Not even Santa Rosa? Sebastopol’s got zilch. It’s something like half the town that’s _still_ not on street view. You can go across the freaking Yukon on street view but not here. What’s _with_ that?”

“I think it’s a zoning thing,” White glasses said. “You know, private roads.”

“No, I mean, actual streets.” She took a gentle sip and handed it over to tall boy, her movements already getting to the cut-strings looseness of drunkenness.

That’d been one of the selling points of the neighborhood he and Buffy settled on. No street view, even now. That, and they’d been able to buy up the three other properties around their own. No street view, few neighbors, and an unlisted number meant that much more privacy and that much less chance for surprise visitors. Not _no_ chance, not with who he and Buffy were, but anything they could do to get such chances down, they would.

Quiet girl wobbled on her feet, then landed heavy on her bum right next to Spike. He laughed, and she scrunched up her face, then shook her head: _No, I know I deserved that laugh._

“Should’ve brought my jacket,” Braided bird grumbled, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“Here.” Tall boy passed her the lemonade. “Warm yourself up.”

“It’s finally getting cold, though. I mean, _finally,”_ Peroxide said.

“I’d say chilly,” Black glasses argued. “Cold, let’s wait until it rains for that. Chilly, that I can agree with.”

“Weather report said a twelve degree low tonight,” Quiet girl said soft enough only she and Spike could hear, the tilt of her head saying she didn’t much care if anyone else heard her or not, but she’d be surprised if they did.

 _Thank God you lot finally switched over to proper measurements,_ Spike thought, and asked, “Any Halloween plans looming for you lot?”

“Nah,” White glasses said. “Maybe give out candy and watch old horror movies.”

“No,” Tall boy said. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

Too old to go around begging for candy, too young for decent pranks, _far_ too young for any proper parties. Nothing to do but be restless.

“Down at Sonoma they’ve got parties,” Peroxide said.

“It’s a college. Of course they’ve got parties,” Black glasses tossed back, then passed the bottle to quiet girl.

“Anyone else want some?” She asked, pitching her voice up for the first time that night. “Anyone? Is it okay if I finish?”

“Sure,” Braided bird said. “Go ahead.”

Quiet girl shrugged and swallowed down everything left in the bottle – all two mouthfuls of it. She gave a full-body shudder when she was done, making a few low noises deep in her throat. No sticking her tongue out and moaning, though. But not far off. 

Spike set his own bottle down. The other kids were talking over the truths of college parties, and what of those truths could be believed, leaving the two of them out of it. 

“Hey,” he asked quiet girl, and she opened her eyes. “You like living here?”

She looked away to consider the question. “Yes,” she said, looking back to him and sounding more present than she’d been all evening. “I mean, it’s not exciting or anything. It’s not much fun, or we’d be – I don’t know, we wouldn’t be at 7-11 after a D&D session, we’d be out at something. A club, I guess. But I like being from here. It’s a place that makes you want to go to other places and really see what the world has in it. Maybe I’ll come back to raise kids here. It’s a good place to be from.” She shrugged. “Do you like living here? I know it’s only been a couple months, but – you like it?”

Spike smiled at her. “Yeah,” he answered. “I do.” Buffy liked it, so he would’ve enjoyed living here anyway. But he liked it himself, too.

She gently turned her head down to look at his bottle and give it all the due consideration she could manage. She pointed at it. “Can I have some?”

Spike picked it up, and as she made move to reach out, he pressed it to his lips and chugged the last mouthfuls. When he looked in her eyes, she was pure mock indignation complete with hands on hips. She turned her head up and away, then back to him with a gentle expression: _You’re the adult and I get that, no hard feelings._

Time was, once upon a time, he’d have Pied Piper’d these kids to one of those end-of-the-house parties. Or just one of those houses. Made them meals for days, drawn out their blood and fear to enjoy a nice, long, lazy feast. Given the quiet one to Dru to play with and see what she’d have made out of her. Never mind what’d be lost with their deaths. Him and Dru hadn’t cared about such petty human things. Now, he was chatting them up just for the chatting, sharing his bourbon with them to keep them from getting into too much trouble, asking them what they thought of the little town he’d retired to. Now, he was thinking of maybe starting a garden once the solarium was finished. You really knew you were _settled_ someplace when you had a garden.

“Yo.” He and quiet girl looked up at tall boy, who jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We gotta head back. My dad’ll drive you.” Quiet girl nodded, carefully standing up with almost no wobbling.

Spike hauled himself to his feet and stretched theatrically. “Well, night-night, kiddies,” he waved, then spun around and grabbed the bottle to throw into a nearby rubbish bin. “Get home safe and all that rot.”

They waved, tossing out thanks and good tidings, and made to head back the way they came. It didn’t quite surprise him that quiet girl turned around and took two steps towards him. “Hey,” she said, louder than she’d been all night. “I’m Sylvie. What’s your name?”

Spike just smiled at her, gave her another wave, then turned and headed off, enjoying the sound of her laugh and her footsteps as she ran to catch up to her friends.

Winding through the streets, enjoying the bits of quiet snatched in between the soft nighttime noises, he almost wasn’t dreading the work he knew would come tomorrow. And it wasn’t so late Buffy still wouldn’t be awake to welcome him home.

That was one thing about those houses and squats and parties: there was always one room off-limits to the party-goers. Just one room. The master bedroom, the spot where he and his lady slept, their little private sanctum. The parties could last for days, sometimes, and it only took three bodies, max, for people to get the message and leave him and Dru alone. Stack them out by the door as a message to leave their space undisturbed. Even before the houses fell to disrepair like that, they never made a huge mess of their bedroom. Some nights he’d come home just before daybreak, a long night out feasting and dancing through the shows, and slid under the covers, cuddle up to Dru and kiss her good-morning, and the two of them would sleep through the day in each other’s arms.

Heading home to the arms of the woman he loved.

Spike looked up at the sky, taking in a deep breath of the early autumn breezes. Climate shift had gotten stabilized some decades back, and it’d never again get as cold as he remembered from his long-ago life, but there were still cold night breezes, and there was still a woman he loved waiting to welcome him into her arms.

Still the same things that made him happy.

Seemed not all _that_ much had changed, then. It was always easy to be happy, if you knew how to do it right.

He laughed, and smiled all the way home.


End file.
